Sweet Futility

I was young, I was in love, and I was about to leave the man I loved in Norway. Good timing has never been my strong suit. I fell in love weeks before I found out he was moving back to Oslo, a fact neither of us knew until it was too late to change the direction we were headed.
Rather than giving up as his flight left, I used my study abroad experience in London as an opportunity to catch my last chance with him. A mere one hour flight gave me one final, futile, weekend to spend with him.

That weekend was a haze of emotion, from the joyful arrival to the tearful goodbye, with the clearest memories spent at Frogner park. This park, to me, was the fruition of our short, sweet months together. I laughed at the ridiculous naked statues that flanked the entrance, leading up to the phallic monolith of entangled bodies at the center. The humor in Frogner park was my personal metaphor for our joyful, fleeting time together: the sheer nature as absurd as the fact that I fell in love with someone a lifetime away. When I think of him, I think of kissing him under those statues, just happy to be able to see his version of home.